Assassin
by Sionnain
Summary: Through her hate, she becomes his Assassin, and he finds her beautiful when she kills.


**Assassin **

"_No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon."_—Matthew 6:24

She hated that he still made her watch.

Hermione had never understood why he did this, because she had long since felt as if her soul had been destroyed, and she had thought that nothing else would ever bring her more pain than when she had watched her friends die..

Of course, she had been wrong. When it came to breaking someone, or hurting them, he was a master. He could use his thrice-damned skill at Legilimency to pull from her those very few things that could still horrify her. Just when she thought she'd been forced to endure the most horrific scenarios his vile imagination could conjure up, he'd surprise her by outdoing even himself. The true horror was the way in which her mind slipped into some dark, cold place where not even his carefully cultivated scenes of dread could reach. It felt as if she were drowning in a dark, murky lake where she would fall slowly to the bottom and finally be able to rest. Sometimes she felt she was rebelling—pushing herself from the bottom of the lake to break the surface, to drag in great gasps of air, and that was the part she hated the most—as she found she was stuck in the muck at the bottom and having to push and pull at her legs so she could get above the surface. She wasn't sure what bothered her more – remembering what she had witnessed or managing to forget.

When she had first been captured, it hadn't been this way. Every iota of her Gryffindor pride had rebelled against what she was required to suffer, and she'd screamed herself hoarse and fought furiously to no avail. She could not pinpoint the exact moment when she had begun to fall silent during his gruesome displays of torture and death, but it had happened gradually, and now she made not a single sound, no matter what terrors he paraded in front of her.

_All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances_. Shakespeare's words were strangely apropos, but the exits taken by the players in Voldemort's ghastly drama were never followed by a subsequent entrance.

When he brought in Ginny Weasley, she had thought something inside of her had shriveled up and died as her friend screamed for mercy under the curse. She could not look away as the young girl was violated and then finally, mercifully, murdered. Still, Hermione made not a sound, even though she knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep that night as the girl's screaming and Draco Malfoy's harsh laughter would echo and reverberate endlessly in her mind. Ginny had been the last, and there was some sort of relief in that.

_He probably should have ended this sick theatrical display by murdering Ron, which would have been more affective._ She was horrified she could think this way, because it meant she was becoming like Voldemort—able to conceive of these horrors without a stroke of remorse. It was only because she had nothing left inside of her, and she supposed the Dark Lord could understand that.

She did not want to understand him.

When everyone she loved—parents, friends, teachers—had perished under his wand or his command, with her seated at his side like some revered guest of honor, she thought he would kill her. After all, why had she been kept alive when everyone else had perished? She waited for him to throw her to the center of the room in front of his Death Eaters to let Draco Malfoy kill her. And honestly, she felt relief at the idea.

He didn't kill her, though. She was still chained to his throne during his council meetings, but when she looked at him, her eyes were blank enough to convince him he'd broken her. She was certain that her silence and apparent quiescence had resulted in him leaving her alone, thinking he'd succeeded in his plan to destroy her.

With no one else left to die, the shattered and broken pieces of her spirit were slowly pieced back together. To entertain herself as he spoke with his Death Eaters about world domination, she would absently stroke the Dark Mark on her forearm—his final act of humiliation upon her—and think of books.

She thought of the things she had learned, the things she had read, the things she had dreamed about learning, back in the days when knowledge and the pursuit of it was her only quest. _"She knows not what the curse may be, and so she weaveth steadily, and little other care has she…."_

Hermione used to think she should have been in Ravenclaw, with the way that she loved to learn and the drive she possessed to know, to understand, to excel in her studies. Sometimes, especially after Voldemort had broken her, she wondered why she had been sorted into Gryffindor at all.

Hermione would recite to herself anything she could remember—plays, books, poetry, statistics, potions, charms—all that was left to her since the memories lay hidden somewhere safe, locked away so that Voldemort could not abscond with those, too. Each time the faces of her beloved friends would appear in her daydreams, she replaced them with the cold comfort of facts and figures. She was not brave enough to remember _them_—Harry, Ron, Ginny, Hagrid—and so she remembered Tennyson instead.

_"I'm half sick of shadows, she said…"_

Through her memories of obscure magical philosophy and intricate potion recipes, they slowly crept back in, the ghosts of her former friends. Potions recipes reminded her of Neville—sweet, bumbling, brave Neville. Transfiguration recalled McGonagall and her strict voice and kind eyes. The friends who had become her family integrated themselves into her thoughts through a careful subterfuge, so that she did not break anew under the sight of their beloved visages in her carefully constructed memories.

She was the one who learned, the one who studied. She was the one who had the answers when Harry's courage and Ron's steadfast loyalty failed them. Harry and Ron were both gone now, and she was left, alone in the enemy's camp.

_If I could find a way to defeat him in the very heart of his lair, that would be a fitting tribute to my house and my friends. _

So it came to be that Hermione was settling down to sleep on the cold stone floor, struggling with the most intricate problem of all-how to defeat Riddle himself, when she was bound to his mercy and surrounded by his army.

For the first time since she had been captured, she found she was smiling.

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"My lord, I beg a favor of you."

It had been so long since she had spoken, Hermione feared her voice would not work and that she would gape at him like him a fish and no words would escape.

Voldemort turned slowly to face her. He had not yet summoned his councilors, and he was alone in the throne room with her chained at his feet. She was certain he had begun to think she was as empty of feeling as was the stone chair upon which he sat.

"So," he hissed at her, crimson eyes blazing, "I see you are still capable of speech. Perhaps I have been unsuccessful in teaching you your place, Mudblood, if indeed your feeble little mind can still formulate a thought."

Hermione felt that newly-resurrected spirit inside of her glow at his words. _That's right, you bastard, you failed._ The triumph she felt in his failure burned through her, and she struggled to keep her mind blank. In the cold of his presence, she knew warmth at last. She cast her eyes downward, as it was not yet time for him to see the gleam of victory in her eyes. That time would come, and all the waiting in the world be worth it.

"What is your favor, Miss Granger? To what can I grant you?" His voice was sarcastic, and she took a deep breath before answering him.

"I would like a book," she said, voice empty.

He laughed—a harsh sound—but said nothing. "A book. How fitting. Still searching for some new knowledge to fill your empty soul?

She looked up at him, and met his eyes defiantly. "Isn't that what you have done? Did you not fill your empty soul with the dark knowledge you have spent a lifetime mastering?"

They shared a glance, and then she writhed in her chains as the magic of Crucio slammed into her, but he was not laughing as he usually did when he casts this curse upon her.

The next day, he gave her a book, and as she had expected, it was on dark magic. That night, she dreamt of her friends and awoke without tears.

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_"Dark magic has the power to raise you above the mundane, to circumvent the spiritual and satisfy the desire for the primal and the physical."_

_What rubbish_, Hermione thought, and rolled her eyes. _Dark magic will cause you to care nothing for the spiritual, being left only with the physical. Thus you seem to be circumventing the desire for what is right and good, but you replacing it because you no longer care._

"That is an interesting theory."

Hermione looked up into his red eyes and tried not to smile. He had tapped into her mind, just as she had hoped.

"It is the truth, dread lord," she said before turning back to the book. She had no interest in calling him "my lord" again, not after swallowing her pride to ask him for the book.

"Is it?" he asked, and she heard something in his voice she never heard before—curiosity. She had intrigued him and that was the first step in her plan.

"Yes," she said, nodding slightly. "It is. Dark magic strips you of the ability to love anything but yourself and the power it gives you. A truly powerful magician is never that unbalanced."

His expression plainly indicated he did not like what she had said. "A powerful wizard cares nothing for those who are too weak to defend themselves," he sneered at her. "I believe that is obvious with the victory I have attained, is it not? I have triumphed over your precious _friends_, who cared more for their morality than true power."

"I cannot argue that you are powerful, dread lord," she said, and turned back towards the book. "But there is always a fatal flaw when one ignores one side of the equation."

His face was twisted into something she would have called a grimace, if anyone asked her to describe it. "Explain," he snapped, crossing his arms across his robed chest.

Hermione thought carefully before answering. "You defeated my friends because they were not able to put aside their morality and use dark magic."

Even though he'd asked her to explain, she suffered under his Cruciatus once more for her impertinence.

The next day, though, he stared down at her and snarled, "Tell me of this great theory you have, and perhaps I'll allow you a dress to cover yourself with when my Death Eaters next reconvene."

The fall of her hair covered her smile.

"I would be pleased to do so, dread lord."

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Hermione's plan had been simple, although in the dark of her mind it was easier to create it than to implement it.

An intellectual connection was easy, and once she began to argue obscure points of philosophy with him, she was able to persuade him to bring her more books. And then the day came when he unchained her from the throne, and she was given a room of her own—sparse and windowless, and guarded at all times—but a room nonetheless. Somewhere in his tomes of dark knowledge he boasted knowing so well had to be the secret to his defeat.

That was her first great victory.

Her knowledge and learning had always been her strong suit, and she was not disappointed in how she fared in this new endeavor. No doubt it pleased him to think her soul was as empty as his and was waiting to be filled with the slow poison of his dark magic. She made certain to pretend to be horrified and intrigued by the knowledge, as if she were being drawn against her will into proving him correct, into allowing her spiritual and moral self to be subjugated by the lure of power.

Along with victory, however, came defeat.

The first happened on the day she was summoned from her little room to Voldemort's private audience chamber. She had been there before, of course, but it looked vastly different when she stood before him instead of being chained at his feet like a dog. In front of him stood a cowering, weak man who she recognized as one Peter Pettigrew.

Hermione had been surprised he had survived the War. At the final battle, she had heard that Harry had played the card that Pettigrew owed him a life debt, and Ron's former rat had stepped aside to allow Harry into Voldemort's sanctuary. She would have though Pettigrew would have been the first to die—after Voldemort was finished systematically destroying his enemies, of course, surely he would have to see to his own followers.

Now the man stood shaking, trembling from head to toe, and he was filthy. Hermione had been given a robe—it was dark and thick, no doubt a cloak belonging to a Death Eater who no longer had need of it—and she was allowed to bathe and keep herself clean. Pettigrew had been given no such leniency.

For a moment, she wondered if he was going to kill her. The thought now brought a twinge of despair, for she was certain, so certain, she knew how to destroy him. To die now would be a waste of her brilliance in constructing her plan.

It was not until the Dark Lord pronounced his sentence that Hermione realized what was meant to happen here, in this room full of the specters of blood and death. Pettigrew was going to die.

And she was going to watch.

There was an odd sense of clinical detachment as she absorbed this information while Pettigrew screamed. He'd let Harry step aside, but Pettigrew had killed others—many others. Would it bother her, to see one of the enemy die? Is that why the Dark Lord had called for her?

Her heart dropped when she realized his plan was much more sinister.

Pettigrew pleaded for his life, crying about loyalty and sobbing for mercy. The pleas fell on deaf ears as Hermione had known they would. _I heard my friends crying these same words before him, and it didn't matter. It shall not make a difference for you, either,_ she thought contemptuously.

In the end, after Voldemort had cast his Crucio and instructed his Death Eaters to do the same, he handed something to Hermione.

An odd rush of sadness and elation ran through her when she beheld the object—it was her wand. The wand was a reminder of a life long since over, a past that had ceased to exist when Harry had fallen beneath Voldemort's Killing Curse.

"Do not bother pointing it at me," Voldemort said with a menacing laugh. "It is charmed for one purpose and one purpose only." He pointed on long, bony finger at Pettigrew.

"Kill him."

Hermione stood there, rooted to the floor. "My deepest apologies, my lord," she said, using his hated title in her desire to avoid this task. "I am not skilled with the Killing Curse."

His high, maniacal chuckle was chilling. "I know," he said simply, smirking at her. "However, I have told you the wand is charmed. Even a three-year old, if he knew the correct words, could cast this curse."

He pointed his own wand at her, and said in a harsh voice, "Miss Granger, prove my point that dark magic is more powerful than your concepts of _mercy_ or _love_. Kill him, or you'll die as well."

She knew he was serious. He wanted to prove a point, and if he were wrong, he would kill her for that insult. Her life mattered less to him than his convictions, and she would guess her life mattered less to him than most things. Her eyes strayed to Pettigrew, his struggling body held to the floor by Lucius Malfoy's black boot which almost lazily pushed down on the center of his back. Malfoy looked at her; his grey eyes were narrowed, not warmed by the smile on his lips.

_They are all mad, every last one of them_. If she didn't do it, she would die, and her plans would all be for naught.

"Miss Granger," Voldemort hissed from behind her, "I do not speak in jest. Unless you wish your own lifeless body to lie next to his, you will do as I command."

_I can't do it_. She turned to tell him that she could not, and braced herself for his curse, before she heard him say in a soft, pleased voice, "he killed your lover, Miss Granger. You see before you the man who murdered Ronald Weasley."

One look into the horrified eyes of Peter Pettigrew, and she knew Voldemort spoke the truth. "I had no choice," Pettigrew babbled, his eyes pleading for her mercy, but Malfoy kicked him viciously in the ribs, and the dirty husk of a man sobbed quietly to himself. Malfoy's face looked down on him in distaste, and Hermione wondered if he would burn his boots for having to touch something so disgusting.

Fury rushed through Hermione, a rage she had never felt before, and it flooded her veins until the only sound she heard was similar to the rush of the ocean you could hear when you pressed your ear up to a conch shell. So many dead, and she had a chance to avenge at least one of them—the death that had hurt her the most.

_"Avada Kedavra"_

It was over before she could think of what she was doing, and then the power exploded through her, a wild euphoria overwhelming her as she watched him die. She looked up and caught Malfoy's eyes with hers. He merely raised one blond brow and stepped away from the corpse that now lay unmoving on the floor.

Voldemort said nothing, but she heard him clapping slowly behind her. Her eyes were riveted to the sight of Pettigrew lying motionless on the stone floor.

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He had her brought to his rooms.

She had never seen Voldemort's private chamber before, and looked nothing like she had thought—no shackles, no ostentatious furnishings—a high bed raised on a dais and a chair before the cold fireplace were all the furnishings in the room. Her eyes flickered towards the bed, as it bespoke of a vulnerability of Voldemort—that he would sleep like a normal man, and the reminder served to harden her resolve. _He is just a man, and he can be killed. _

"So, Miss Granger, do you still think yourself correct? Does your Gryffindor pride cower from what you have just done?"

She took a deep breath, hands twisted in her robes. "I daresay even Godric Gryffindor himself would have killed the man who murdered his lover," she said, but the words felt like a lie.

"You think so? Fascinating. I would have thought Gryffindor the type to choose death before dishonor, as the saying goes."

He was correct – she should have died before using such dark, hateful magic, even if Pettigrew had deserved it. She really was no better than he. Although she tried not to cry, it was useless, and tears slipped slowly down her cheeks. Voldemort wasn't looking at her though, which was her only consolation.

"Why?" she sobbed suddenly, the palms of her hands digging into her eyes as she fought in vain to stop her tears. "Why did you make me do that?" Her hands dropped to her robes to grasp the fabric, twisting, and she regarded him warily.

Voldemort stood, but he did not face her. He was wearing a simple hooded cloak similar to the one she wore, and the hood was pulled up over his head. One of his hands was braced on the mantle as he stared into the flames of the fire.

"I didn't-" she began, but his cold laugh stopped her.

"I know how you felt, because I felt the same when I killed young Mr. Potter. Vanquishing one's enemy is a most pleasurable feeling, isn't it? You know how joyful and satisfying it is, Miss Granger, do not lie. That feeling does not diminish, no matter how many times I cast the spell."

Hermione remained silent, hating herself and hating him for mentioning Harry. She allowed her tears to fall on the floor, and she dug her nails into her palms until they drew blood to stop her rage. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of screaming at him in her rage. In addition, there was something absurdly comforting about the pain. _At least I can still feel that_, she thought and was almost ashamed.

"I know," Voldemort said in a soft voice, and he turned to face her. The light obscured his face, but she saw those crimson eyes. "Sometimes the pain is the only thing that convinces us we still live."

There was something in his voice she did not want to understand, so she turned from him.

He laughed, and when he spoke again that strange quality was absent from his voice, leaving it eager and sinister. "I believe I have proven myself correct, Miss Granger. Your morality was nothing in the face of the power you were given to wield."

She refused to face, her mind a whirl. "I only did it because you charmed the wand," she said softly, staring at the bloody half-moons on her palms where her nails had marked her. "If I had to rely on my own skill, no doubt we both would be dead."

She felt him behind her and trembled in fear as his fingers skirted down her shoulders to the sleeve of her robe on her left arm. He pulled it up, revealing his Mark on her skin and tracing it with his fingers that felt like ice against her flushed skin.

"I lied," he hissed in her ear, and her heart stopped for a moment as the impact of his words hit her nearly as hard as an Unforgivable.

"Wha—what?" she whispered. She wanted to look into his eyes but was too afraid to turn her head and do so. Hermione feared what she might see in his burning crimson gaze—amusement at her expense, or—even worse—some sick expression of pride in what she had done?

"The wand was your own and was charmed with nothing. I wasn't even sure you could cast the Killing Curse, so I lied to you. I would have thought you'd realize that a wand can't be charmed for only one purpose – it seems your vaunted knowledge failed you in this case. But nevertheless, what you did tonight was your own making. You could have even killed me, I daresay." As she had feared, his voice was imbued with a sense of twisted pride. "You have done well to earn the Mark I forced you to take."

Hermione felt something inside of her die, as if the last bit of her friends that dwelled within her had been extinguished with Pettigrew's pathetic life. _I killed that man? My rage caused me to use that curse with such deadly precision?_

_"Yes…."_ Voldemort's hiss whispered over her skin, raising hairs on her neck. His hand tightened on her arm, wrapping sinuously around her flesh. His other hand moved up to brush her hair off her nape, he pulled her back until she was flush against him and she felt his mouth move on the smooth skin of her throat. Hermione shook so hard she thought she would collapse from the combination of fear and adrenaline rushing through her.

"No," she whispered, afraid of him and what he was doing—but more so, she feared this new dark knowledge that had sprung to life within her, the feeling of power and joy as she'd cursed Pettigrew foremost in her thoughts. "I am not going to be ashamed!" She said, voice shaking. She tried to pull away from Voldemort but he tightened his embrace, and her struggles were in vain. "Godric Gryffindor had a _sword_, surely even _he_ would have not hesitated to kill one who deserved it!" her voice rang out, frantic and high, in the room as she tried to justify her actions so that her guilt would be diminished.

He was tightening around her in a sinuous fashion that reminded her of a serpent with its prey. "No doubt you are correct, Miss Granger," he whispered, his tongue flicking at her ear, "but would he have _enjoyed_ it?"

She hung her head in defeat at his words. "No," she breathed quietly. "He wouldn't have."

She bit her lip, the horror and revulsion of her actions and his embrace overwhelming her. _I deserve whatever it is he is going to do to me, whatever torment he will chose to inflict upon me. I have failed, and I cannot kill him._

He chuckled behind her, his breath ghosting along her cheek. "Of course you cannot kill me," he said condescendingly as his fingernails dug into her skin painfully. "Do fight me again, will you, Hermione? I find it much more enjoyable, you know. A snake always likes it prey to struggle…."

She went limp in his arms. _If he is going to force me, I shall have him enjoy it as little as possible._

To her surprise, he released her. "I think not, little one. To rape you would not destroy you. I've no doubt you would hide away again in the prison of your mind which wouldn't serve my purpose at all, Hermione." Her given name sounded strange in his serpentine voice. His hands still ran lightly over the skin of her neck and collarbone, skirting the collar of her robes gently and raising goose bumps on her arms.

"It would serve my vengeance far better if you struggled against me and yet enjoyed it," he said, and she stiffened. "If prey were to enjoy being devoured…"

Unable to help herself, she sobbed, unwilling to struggle as he would prefer but just as unwilling to beg him to release her.

"Oh, you will, Hermione. You will indeed beg me."

He released her and moved back into the shadows. Presently, there was a knock at the door, and she was escorted from his room and back to her own. There, she swallowed her pride and asked her escort—Blaise Zabini, she remembered him vaguely from school—for a bath. He gave her a long look.

"I shall have to pass your request along to the Dark Lord, or Mr. Malfoy," he said, peering at her with dark eyes as if he thought it was some trick.

"You may assure the dread lord and Mr. Malfoy I do not plan to drown myself in the water," she said sarcastically. Blaise left her alone, and when he returned, he waved his wand and conjured up a bath with steaming hot water for her.

"Mr. Malfoy said he did not particularly care if you _did_ drown yourself, but that it would be a waste for one so skilled with the Killing Curse," Blaise said, watching her with eager eyes.

_Why do they all taunt me, as if I am a butterfly whose wings they want to tear off slowly and pin to a wall?_ Hermione stripped her robe off and tossed it negligently on the floor, too lost in her own grief to care that Blaise stood and watched her climb naked into the tub.

The water was scalding hot, but she sank in it up to her neck and made not a sound as the water blistered her skin. The water did nothing to ease the chill in her soul. No matter how many times she scrubbed at the Dark Mark, it remained where it was—black and sinister—and she feared it slowly leaked its poison into her very soul.

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Although she wished that it would, it did not stop with Pettigrew.

Hermione was forced, more than once, to dispense justice on those Death Eaters who had failed the Dark Lord. Somehow, however, he always found a reason to present her with revenge on a platter.

Karakoff had killed Luna Lovegood and brutally raped her corpse. Hermione knew this firsthand, having been made to watch it as part of her initial punishment. It seemed that she remembered every detail of what she had tried so hard to forget, as those men were brought bound in chains and thrown at the Dark Lord's feet. She trembled with rage at the sight of them, and each time, he gave her the same horrifying ultimatum.

_Kill him, or you shall join him in death_. Then, he would proceed to inform her which of her loved ones had been killed by the man who lie on the ground before her and provide explicit details as to the murder. It didn't matter if she had been present for the atrocities in question, Voldemort insisted on repainting the picture for her and this gruesome pensieve gave her no respite until she pointed the wand and sobbed out the words.

She had tried to point the wand at him, once, but the words had choked in her throat. She remembered Lucius Malfoy's mocking, cold voice as he drawled "I'd advise against it, Miss Granger."

She knew that if she succeeded in killing him, she wouldn't stand a chance of survival. The Death Eaters ringed Voldemort, who was guarded by his most fanatical of followers. Bellatrix Lestrange even shielded his body with her own, and Hermione knew for certain that the other woman would die for him. This she did each time Hermione cast the curse.

The Dark Lord had laughed. "I appreciate your effort, Miss Granger. If killing Karakoff gave you that much happiness, I can only imagine your joy if you were to be the one to finally slay me."

She hated him for being correct about that, for at night she dreamt of killing him. She would awake smiling at the dreams of his death, of being free—and she would swear she heard him his hissing laugh echoing in her room.

When she killed for him, she was given things that made her life easier. It began with a new room with a bath, then books and new robes. She tried to shun these things, but she quickly learned the error of not at least appearing to be "properly appreciative." She did not like to be the recipient of the Cruciatus from Lucius, even if he was not as skilled in it as his master.

Her plans to destroy Voldemort began to consume her, and each time she was forced to kill for him, it was his face she saw when she cast the Killing Curse.

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Hermione knew that these systematic murders could not continue indefinitely, and the thought was the one hope left to her.

Surely, at some point, there would be only those whom he could not afford to kill left in his ranks? He had loyal followers, that much was clear. She remembered Bellatrix, shielding the Dark Lord with her very body, though her husband stood but a scant few feet away. Would he assign _them_ as her victims merely to amuse himself at watching a Gryffindor become his assassin? Or, as a tyrant, would his rule with brutality and fear to ensure a fresh supply of victims for his perverted pleasure and her continual destruction?

She knew the Killing Curse was destroying her. She would see the dark and glowing eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange and understand how the once beautiful woman had been twisted into the sadistic monster she had become. Bellatrix's specialty was the Cruciatus, and her thin, wiry body seemed to have become the physical embodiment of the curse itself—wiry, sadistic, and darkly all at the same time. With this as an example, Hermione feared what she would become if she were to continue to wield the Killing Curse for Voldemort's perverse pleasure.

Perhaps she would be standing next to the Dark Lord with Bellatrix, shielding him from harm? The though horrified her, since she was the one who dreamt of his destruction and death, of Voldemort's body stretched on the floor and herself standing above him in triumph.

The horror of her new-found role as assassin did not end with the casting of the Killing Curse. After she had performed for him, he would often summon her to his rooms, and enfold her in that terrifying embrace. It wasn't so much his touch that disturbed her—although that was cold and frightening, to be sure—but rather, it was his voice and what he said to her in those moments. He liked to describe her when she killed for him. He'd detail how her face was cold and empty, void of all emotion, but that her eyes burned with hatred and a sick, twisted joy.

"I know you imagine that it is me," he would whisper, sliding his hands over her neck to caress her gently, his mouth tracing the path his hands had taken. She could always feel his teeth graze lightly over her pulse point. "And that is why you are joyful, isn't it? The thought of my body beneath you, my eyes vacant in death. That image makes your blood stir and sing, does it not?"

He never removed her clothes; in fact, he touched her only on the exposed skin of her neck and her shoulders. The robes he had sent her to wear, however, had a lower neckline and remove often his cold fingers would stroke dangerously close towards her breasts, while her breath caught in her throat at his caress and at the horrible, numbing truth of his words.

For she _did_ imagine that it was him, each and every time, and that had become the only joy she knew.

She did not struggle in his arms even though she wanted to. Hermione had long known that if she did, something would happen that would finish destroying her more effectively than he had done by making her kill for him. She feared this most of all, because a small voice inside of her taunted her with the knowledge that it would be hateful indeed to become his prey.

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Hermione stood in her usual spot and felt her face become a mask and her eyes grow cold as the man was pushed to his knees by Malfoy, who seemed to take a perverse pleasure in doing so. His usually impeccable blonde hair was loose and obscured his face; Hermione wondered if there had been some kind of struggle bringing in this particular victim, Malfoy did not like to appear disheveled.

Bellatrix Lestrange flanked Voldemort's right, as was customary. It was common knowledge that when the Dark Lord handed the wand to Bellatrix, she would bring pain to whomever was unlucky enough to be bound before the Dark Throne. Hermione stood on his left, and she was the one who brought death.

As the wand was handed to Bellatrix, Hermione would stand motionless. She'd seen almost all of them writhing under the woman's skill with the Curse, and each time, she was relieved that the burden had been taken from her.

Hermione looked down at the man he was on his knees with his head bowed, and wondered why she felt this would not end with the Cruciatus.

Malfoy had pulled his hair back into its usual queue, giving her a glimpse of his coldly beautiful face, which looked smug despite sporting a wicked-looking black eye. As she had correctly assumed, they had fought, Voldemort's top lieutenant and this man who was bound and prone before them.

The man on the floor raised a bloodied face and fixed her with a dark, even stare, and Hermione recognized Severus Snape. He and Hermione stared at each other for a moment before he nodded slightly to her, as if he understood she would be the last thing he saw before the bright flash of green ended his life. Malfoy kicked him and sneered something, but Hermione could not hear it over the roar of the blood in her ears as a million feelings rushed through her—guilt, horror, and something darker she did not care to examine.

Voldemort handed the wand to Bellatrix, and Hermione released a breath, although that sense of foreboding remained wrapped around her like the fine silk cloak she wore.

Her former Potions professor screamed only once under the curse, and she dug her nails into her hand again. There were countless half-moon marks embedded in her skin, but she no longer felt the pain, ignoring the blood that dripped onto the cold stones beneath her feet. The gesture had become habit—part of the macabre ritual in which she was forced to participate.

There was a wild joy on Bellatrix's face when she handed the wand back to Voldemort. He nodded, and she bowed, stepping back. _Does she imagine it is him, I wonder? Does Bellatrix see Voldemort, each time she hurts them? Is it his face she sees, remembering the torment and the horrors of Azkaban?_

Quietly, so that only she could hear him, Voldemort said, "no doubt she does, Hermione," and then he handed her the wand.

Hermione's brown eyes flew to his, he looked amused. "Kill him, Hermione," he said pleasantly, and she was rooted the stop upon which she stood.

"My lord-" she whispered, her mind was whirling. _Who did he kill, Severus Snape? Which friend of mine did he betray to their death?_ She knew he could hear her, hear the thoughts that raced through her mind.

"No one you know," he said, a smug smile twisted his lips. "He betrayed _me_, Hermione. Not to mention, he never spoke very highly of you—spy for your precious Order, regardless. Know-it-all Mudblood, he called you." Voldemort made a mocking _tsking_ sound. "Not very nice of you, Severus," he said, his gaze going to the silent form of Severus Snape, who was once again being forced to kneel by a triumphant-looking Malfoy.

"Kill him, Hermione. Think of how many times he insulted you in class. Think of the joy it shall bring you, killing him and pretending it is me—why, such a coup, my dear, to kill one who was a top-ranking Death Eater until his duplicity was discovered. Kill him, or join him. As always, my dear, it is your choice."

She met the potion master's eyes, which were nearly black with a terrible grief of their own. In her mind, she heard every slur he'd even thrown at her, remembered every demerit, every detention, every horrible thing he'd ever done to her and her friends. Remembered Neville, quaking under his scrutiny, flushed and miserable from his endless cruel taunts.

For the first time since she had become his unwilling assassin, Hermione spoke. Her voice was clear and strong in the room.

"I imagine this must be a novel experience for you, Professor, suffering the mocking of those in authority over _you_."

Lucius Malfoy laughed, and he was not the only one to do so. Bellatrix threw her head back, dark hair streaming over her back in waves that caught the torchlight and laughed. It was a high, manic sound that Hermione rather thought would be the audible voice of the Cruciatus, if such things were possible. Voldemort hissed something behind her, but she didn't hear, so focused was she on Snape.

He opened his mouth to speak, and she wondered madly if he was going to deduct house points from her for her audacity.

Malfoy kicked him, hard. "I don't believe Miss Granger asked you to speak."

Hermione felt a strange thrill at his words, and met Malfoy's cold, grey eyes. This man who personified evil was defending her, as if she were an equal. She inclined her chin slightly, and he nodded briefly in assent.

Her eyes met Snape's again, and there was a moment where she remembered herself, where her old fears of disobeying a teacher rose up and almost choked her. She faltered in the hushed silence of the chamber, the wand pointed at him.

He must have thought she was drawing out the torment of his death in order to be cruel, rather than fighting indecision—somehow, it was becoming harder and harder for her to keep emotion on her face—and so he spoke to her, regardless of Malfoy's vicious kick.

"I always knew you were nothing without someone far more powerful to cling to, Miss Granger."

She did not think of her friends and nor did she think of Voldemort. For the first time, she cast the curse for herself, remembering his words from fourth year, _"I see no difference."_ The joy that rushed through her in its aftermath was entirely selfish, and she smiled fiercely when saw him lying on the floor, the proud and horrid potions master brought low, at last, by her.

She turned to hand the wand back to Voldemort. Hermione smirked at the Dark Lord, who clapped in apparent delight.

"Excellent work, my dear," he purred before he stood and dismissed his assembled Death Eaters. "I believe that brings an end to our necessary purges, my loyal followers. All of those who have betrayed us have been dealt with."

The Death Eaters bowed and turned to go, and Lucius Malfoy smiled coldly at Hermione, looking pointedly down at the corpse of her former professor lying supine on the floor. She refused to look away, meeting his eyes calmly, and at this, he smiled again. There was actual warmth in the expression, and he was chuckling as he walked away.

Hermione moved to follow the others out of the chamber, but Voldemort caught her arm in his strong, cruel fingers. "You will attend me in my chamber," he hissed at her.

She nodded, but said nothing, the smile staying in place.

"I shall send Zabini to collect you in an hour," he said, and she raised her eyes to his with a strange sort of thrill. He apparently knew she liked to bathe afterwards.

"That shall not be necessary," she said. "I know the way to your rooms. I shall be there in an hour, as you have instructed."

He stared at her for a long time, his fingers still gripping her arm.

"Do not be late," he said, and turned to leave, his cloak billowing out as he strode from the room.

oooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooooo

When she arrived at his door, he was waiting for her.

She had bathed and dressed with care, understanding what was going to happen. There was an odd fear within her as she made her way, unescorted, to his rooms.

_Tonight, I will struggle. Tonight, I will be the prey that longs to be devoured._

She turned her back on him, but only because that is how he liked for her to be. He was behind her in a moment, those cold and deadly hands sliding over her skin. Something about his touch made it feel as if she were being consumed by ice itself. When he pulled her back into his embrace, she struggled slightly. Since the first night they had played this deadly game, he had never ceased remarking how her struggling would be her final capitulation to his authority.

She heard his voice catch, his whisper of "Hermione" almost reverent in the velvety darkness surrounding them.

His hands went further and pulled at the fastening of her robes. She had secured them with a serpent brooch, some trinket he had given her for a kill she had performed in his name, though she couldn't remember which. He tossed it carelessly to the floor, and she found herself transfixed by the way the light played in the red ruby eyes of the brooch.

He pulled her back, hands eager on her body as she struggled against him. She heard his breathing, harsh and rapid, in her ear, and he bit down lightly on the skin of her neck.

Hermione moaned, thought she did not cease trying to pull away from him. It was, after all, what he wanted.

"I knew you'd like this," he hissed in her ear as her robes landed at her feet. Her hair was still caught up in a topknot as she knew he liked to have access to the smooth skin of her throat. And indeed, one of his hands was scratching the skin of her neck lightly even as he spoke to her.

She did not answer, but she finally leaned back against him and met his glowing crimson eyes. His hands covered her breasts, and they ceased to be gentle and pulled at her roughly. He turned her around and advanced on her threateningly until she was pushed against the bed. He shoved her roughly onto the mattress and was above her, pinning her arms to her sides.

She could not see his face in the darkness, just his eyes. She bucked beneath him, and he laughed delightedly. His body was wiry against her, hard yet sinuous in a way that defied the human form. She struggled harder.

"Yes, that's it…" he whispered in the dark, hands pulling at her knickers until she was naked beneath him. "Fight me, Hermione, it makes it so much better…"

"I know…" she sobbed, hating herself, hating him, hating the wild, horrifying joy that was rushing through her at his touch. _He is the Killing Curse, the Cruciatus, all of it combined…the darkest and most primal force, horrifying and terrifying and exhilarating…_

She knew he heard her thoughts because he pushed sharply against her, and she thought she heard him groan. The sound was arousing and frightening—what did it take to make the Dark Lord shudder with pleasure?

"I'll show you…" he whispered and bit her shoulders, her breasts, hands still anchoring her to the bed, his grip frighteningly strong.

Her legs shifted beneath him, and after one glorious rush of desire, she tried to move off the bed. He caught her up and a spell was murmured in the dark—her hands were bound to the bed so she could not move.

"Struggle all you want against the bindings, little one," he purred, running his finger down the center of her body. "The more you struggle, the tighter they become." His long fingers were cold, reminding her of a knife, and the thought made her body shudder in pleasure, a moan escaping escaped her lips.

"Later, perhaps…" he whispered, and she felt his fingers slide inside her. Hermione thrashed wildly as the cold, chilling sensations spread over her at his rough possession of her most intimate place.

"You're so wet for me, my dear," his said in his sibilant voice. "Was this from me or your skillful use of the Killing Curse?" His fingers did something that hurt and pleasured her at the same time. His mouth traveled down her body, nipping at her and drawing blood.

She sobbed something; it could have been his name, or it could have been a curse. _It is the same, just as pleasure is pain and pain is pleasure, darkness is light_….lights were exploding behind her eyes, but she dragged them open to watch him as he loomed over her.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, voice thick with excitement and lust.

"Yes," she moaned, twisting underneath him, but her hips arched shamelessly towards him and his relentless, cold fingers. The bindings tightened around her with her every movement until she was stretched and pulled taut beneath him.

"I can end it now, Hermione, is that what you want?" His mouth was next to her ear now, nipping and licking at her neck.

"Yes….no…" She did not know what she was saying anymore, only that she would die if he stopped, die if he continued…

He was over her, his body between her legs, which opened easily for him. Her head thrashed on the pillows, cries spilling from her lips as she writhed futilely against the bindings.

"Then be my prey, Hermione. The serpent likes to claim that which fights strongly for life. Struggle for me, my dear." That sinister voice wrapped around her in the dark, and she was beset simultaneously by chills and a horrible pleasure.

She fought him even as her legs wrapped around him eagerly, and he thrust himself into her. She dissolved into a million pieces beneath him and gloried in his groans as she thrashed wildly, increasing her terror, his pleasure, and her desire.

When it was over, the bindings were released, and she wrapped her arms around him and held him as they shook, replete.

_The serpent has caught and devoured its prey_, she thought and smiled.

_Finis_


End file.
